


A Shift in Focus

by HeyJude19



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Draco Malfoy in Glasses, Draco Malfoy is a shameless flirt, Draco Malfoy now wears glasses, Draco Malfoy wears glasses, F/M, Galas, Galas and Glasses, Green tufted sofa, Hermione is oblivious, Humor, Ministry of Magic Employee Hermione Granger, Mutual Pining, Romance, Sexual Content, happy birthday mightbewriting, idiots to lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-11
Updated: 2020-12-11
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:14:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27987540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HeyJude19/pseuds/HeyJude19
Summary: Hermione hadn’t meant for this to become the focus of her evening. She had plenty of other, more professional, more productive things toward which she should direct her focus.Glasses. And an open collar.No, not those things. Hermione sipped her drink and tried to set her mind to rights. She needed to plan her conversations with donors tonight. She needed to concentrate on networking and pitching her latest ideas.She needed to stop ogling Draco Malfoy.For mightbewriting’s birthday.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 57
Kudos: 748
Collections: mightbewriting mightbehavingabirthday





	A Shift in Focus

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mightbewriting](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mightbewriting/gifts).



> Dear mightbewriting:  
> Happy Birthday! Please enjoy this humble offering on this most auspicious occasion. You are a ridiculous source of fun in this fandom space and I love our friendship, our coincidence party, our discussions of punctuation bias and well, all of our discussions really. It's been an insanely awesome time getting to know you, even if you haven't seen any movies. 
> 
> So thank you my wonderful friend for the endless joy you give via your writing and your charming af personality, even if you're really just a massive troll with those damn hourglasses. I hope your birthday is filled with courgettes, scones, questionable piercing decisions, and gin and tonics. <3 <3

* * *

Glasses. An open collar.

Hermione hadn’t meant for this to become the focus of her evening.

She had plenty of other, more professional, more productive things toward which she should direct her focus.

Glasses. And an open collar.

No, not those things. Hermione sipped her drink and tried to set her mind to rights. She needed to plan her conversations with donors tonight. She needed to concentrate on networking and pitching her latest ideas.

She needed to stop ogling Draco Malfoy.

The annual gala and awards ceremony for The Alliance for Magical Equality (TAME) was neither the time nor the place for Hermione to become distracted by tall, blond wizards.

Tall, blond wizards wearing glasses. And a shirt with an open collar.

He already distracted her enough at her day job. He’d saunter down the halls of the Ministry, taking the most circuitous path possible to Harry’s office in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Not even an employee of the Ministry of Magic—of course not, how plebeian—but he popped by so often in his role as a “private consultant” he might as well have his own office.

He’d stop in and chat with anyone and everyone, despite the fact that Harry had a rather tight schedule, generally, and Malfoy liked to cut it very fine indeed. And though Hermione’s office was nowhere near the path Malfoy should logically take from Harry’s office back to the lifts, he somehow always found a way to stop by when he’d finished simultaneously irritating and assisting Harry with a case.

“Granger,” he’d usually say with a tip of his head. “I was on my way out and thought I might pick that enormous brain of yours.” He’d pay her some sort of smarmy compliment by flattering her intelligence or work ethic.

She’d roll her eyes but hear him out anyway. Though her position was in the Department of International Magical Cooperation she did enjoy learning about the Dark artefacts he came across in his role as a handler of black market objects. Post-war, and after the liquidation of just about every heirloom from Malfoy Manor, he’d carved out a rather niche career as an expert in identifying certain Dark items formerly owned both by his family or other pureblood royalty and could assist the Ministry in both tracking their whereabouts and diffusing the sinister enchantments placed upon them. He knew every unsavoury and seedy connection maintained by ancient families to either obtain or purge these dangerous goods, and had proven quite crucial, if rather annoying, to Harry’s Auror career (“Yes, Malfoy. I requested him,” Harry explained to Hermione about his initial presence in the Ministry halls six years ago. “If the git weren’t so bloody useful I’d hex his smug arse into the next century.”)

During his regular visits to Hermione’s office, Draco often found ways to spin quite the tale when recalling encounters with cursed goblets, deadly poisons, or ancient, evil protection spells on things as mundane as slips of parchment. He’d ask her opinions on the curse-breaking techniques used or solicit her recommendations for different research texts for future projects. He’d then politely thank her for her time and the “illuminating discussion” and then be on his way.

In recent weeks, the visits increased in frequency. But he always did this. Every year for the last four years. Upped his flirtatious nonsense in the weeks leading up to the gala.

She couldn’t quite figure out why. If he meant to ask her, or be asked by her, to the TAME gala he never made it obvious. In fact, he never even mentioned the gala by name at all. But every year, he showed up to the event, despite not having been invited. Not explicitly.

The invitation technically went to his mother. Narcissa Malfoy had become one of the most prolific donors to TAME, and Hermione, for the life of her, could not determine the reason. The woman rarely showed her face in public these days and with Lucius in Azkaban for the foreseeable future, it seemed she sent her son out into the world to act as the face of the Malfoy family.

Draco showed up dateless every year. Though this year he’d shown up in glasses. And a shirt open at the top of his collar.

Hermione also attended solo every year.

She didn’t like bringing a date to what essentially amounted to an evening of work on behalf of Muggleborn equality advocacy. She didn’t want to have to mind another person and divvy her attention between their emotional needs and her quest to convince a wealthy patron to part with some gold for a worthy cause. Plus, she always enjoyed the awards and speeches later in the evening and it would only irritate her to be interrupted during that time.

Hermione eagerly anticipated listening to journalist Titania Newsom, tonight’s honouree receiving the annual award for “Champion for Muggleborn Rights.” The intrepid investigative reporter had published a huge exposé of discriminatory hiring practices against Muggleborns, implicating several prominent businesses in Diagon Alley.

But those glasses. And that open collar. A peek of bare skin she’d never seen.

No, she should not let that disturbingly appealing sight capture her attention. Again. She did not need her thoughts to stray toward the conclusion that she wouldn’t mind being his date for the evening.

Though still puzzled by his attendance at all, she’d learned years ago that she’d not receive a straight answer from him.

She’d actually been the one to pull him into a dance. As an unescorted young witch, Hermione quickly learned many older gentlemen took this as an open invitation to linger a little too close during conversations and get rather bold with their hands during what should have been cursory waltzes out of politeness.

When one wizard with a reputation for being too forward with witches inquired whether she might like to take a turn about the dance floor, Hermione’s eyes had darted desperately around, and landed on a nearby Draco Malfoy. She hurriedly told the other man she’d promised her final dance of the evening to an old friend, marched over to a bemused Malfoy and practically demanded a dance from him. He’d obliged. Immediately.

Now each year, Draco made it a point to sidle over to her and smugly inform her she owed him a dance in repayment for his chivalry. She’d roll her eyes and accept, allowing the rather dashing wizard in his pristine, tailored robes to sweep her around the dance floor. He’d generally poke fun and gossip about the people in attendance, Hermione constantly torn between amusement and admonishment. Though he did have valuable intel about which guests might be partial to certain causes. Hermione would then express surprise at this attendance, and inquire about his mother’s whereabouts.

He routinely replied with cagey responses. “Is indisposed this evening.” “Had a conflicting engagement.” “Thought it’d be best for me to attend in her stead.”

Hermione wondered which excuse he’d give tonight for his mother’s continued mysterious absence despite her increasingly generous donations to the organisation. Surely at some point, she’d like to show her face and perhaps hear more about how her Galleons were spent? Then again, the Malfoys were so wealthy perhaps this sort of thing was run-of-the-mill in their world. Just another gala on an over-scheduled social calendar.

Once the cocktail hour ended and the CEO of TAME, Elmira Leach, made her entrance in a fabulous mauve pantsuit to general applause, the dinner portion of the evening began while the older witch gave her welcome remarks. The woman’s commanding presence, resounding voice, and impeccable fashion sense always made for an engaging speaker.

Hermione remembered the day she’d received a letter from the foundation, inquiring whether she’d be interested in donating her time as a speaker to an upcoming event on house-elf rights. Though Hermione enjoyed her diplomacy role at the Ministry, she’d been looking for ways to fill her time outside of work, and an organisation headed by Elmira Leach (daughter of first ever Muggleborn Minister for Magic Nobby Leach) seemed a fantastic opportunity, if a bit of a surprise. 

Hermione soon found she enjoyed working in an advocacy role very much, and years later had taken an open position on their volunteer board of directors. It had allowed her to have a hand in strengthening laws against werewolf discrimination, outlawing practices of physical punishment of parents on their Squib children, and generally furthering the cause of Muggleborn equality in the magical world.

With Elmira’s remarks concluded and dinner plates vanished by catering staff, the orchestra started up to signal the opening of the dance floor for those wishing to partake in a waltz or two. Hermione sipped a glass of champagne and cast an amused eye around the hundreds of guests in the ballroom.

Each year, it seemed the wizarding world edged closer and closer to finally accepting Muggle formal attire as fashionable for such prestigious events. She counted fewer and fewer people in dress robes, noticing the women (like herself) opted for Muggle cocktail dresses or gowns and many men donned tailored suits.

And one particular man wore glasses and a shirt open at the collar. No tie in sight.

Hermione strolled around the edge of the dance floor and deposited her empty glass on a passing tray. She came to a stop to survey the dancing crowd, knowing a certain someone would approach now that she’d finally come to a halt and no longer engaged in idle chatter with others.

“Is it time for our annual dance?”

The sound of his coolly amused voice came from her right. Closer than she’d anticipated and forced her to repress a pleasant shiver.

“Are you asking?”

“If you’ll permit me.”

She turned to him with a teasing smile and held out her hand. He guided her gracefully to the center of the floor amidst the crowd and held her at a polite distance. And even though their positions would be above reproach to anyone present, it caused rather salacious thoughts to run rampant through her mind.

Especially because their respective statures meant she stood eye level with that open collar. With the skin revealed by that unbuttoned, open collar. Porcelain, smooth-looking skin. Alabaster flesh she’d never seen before, ever, in her entire life.

He always showed up to the Ministry in severe, black robes with a carefully knotted tie. And at every gala in the past, he’d attended in beautiful custom dress robes. But tonight, for some reason, Draco had shown up looking rather fashionable indeed in a crisp navy suit and immaculate white shirt, but looking thoroughly, indisputably Muggle.

She really should stop staring at his throat.

But staring Draco full in the face also seemed likely to doom her. Because tilting her gaze upward meant seeing him in those new glasses. Glasses perched on that patrician nose. Sleek, thin, square-shaped metal frames that somehow contributed to his already sharp features and only highlighted their fine points and illuminated the grey shade of his eyes.

Maybe if she got him talking, got him to open his mouth and remind her of his constant state of prattishness, she’d stop being so frustratingly entranced by this version of him.

“You’re rather informally dressed.”

He cast an eye down the front of his attire.

“Oh, is this incorrect?”

“I meant for you.”

“Ah. Well, I find Muggles seem to have us at a disadvantage when it comes to comfortable clothing. I rather appreciate shedding all those layers of robes every now and then.”

Hermione tried desperately not to picture him shedding even more layers. She failed. Miserably.

“The glasses are new.”

“Old age comes for us all.”

“I hardly think 28 is old. Does that mean you’ll eventually have grey hair?”

“Too far, Granger. And here I thought we’d agreed to be civil as adults.”

“Just making up for all the times you taunted me about my hair.”

The smirk she inspired on his mouth was rooted in affability as opposed to cruelty. It crinkled his eyes at the corners, creating lines of maturity in an otherwise youthful countenance.

“You should know, given the company you kept at Hogwarts, that boys can be rather stupid.”

She quirked her lips and lifted a brow.

“That’s hardly an apology for past rudeness.”

“Perhaps not, but what if I told you I think your hair becomes you?”

“Depends on how you’re describing it these days, I suppose.”

“Stunning.”

He did this every time too. Managed to shut her up with a disarming compliment. But he doled out charm constantly, she saw it all the time at the Ministry. The way he’d chat amicably with an administrative assistant, or joke with a junior Auror. Glad-hand with a department head. In this she could see how he’d taken the political lessons from his father and put them to more palatable use. As opposed to greasing palms and amassing blackmail, he turned on the impeccable manners and could call in all sorts of favours at the Ministry without a single Galleon having left his overflowing vault.

Hermione did admire that particular skill in him. A skill area she’d had to improve in herself in her charitable endeavours—learning how and when to speak to potential donors to secure either their vocal support of a new law or their monetary support of an area in need of funds.

So when Draco Malfoy with his sharp, new glasses and his tempting open collar paid her the compliment of “stunning,” she retreated from their game of banter and danced the rest of the song in silence. She knew smooth-talk when she heard it. That type of careful flattery in an arsenal of charm. The same brand of nicety one bestowed on any acquaintance during a formal occasion in the brief company of an amiable dance partner.

The song came to an end and he released his hold of her.

“Thank you as always for the dance Granger,” he intoned politely and gave her a short bow.

Her eyes followed his form as he walked away and Hermione wondered if she’d said something different, been someone different, that she might have gotten a second dance. Or a dinner companion for next Friday. Or an invitation back to his home tonight.

* * *

At the following month’s board of directors meeting for TAME, a very pleased Elmira shared some encouraging numbers for the significant amount raised for several initiatives, mostly in the Muggleborn advocacy sector.

“Hermione, I know you have a preexisting relationship with the young Mr. Malfoy—”

“Oh not really,” Hermione broke in with a blush. “We were at school together and he collaborates with the Ministry occasionally.”

“Yes, well, be that as it may, we’ve received quite the sum from Narcissa Malfoy last week. So whatever you’ve said to her son seems to have had quite the effect.”

Hermione couldn’t understand why the statement simultaneously thrilled and vexed her.

* * *

She hadn’t seen Draco for two months. Harry mentioned something about an international sting operation involving a cursed mirror and a seller claiming it as the true Mirror of Erised.

Then one morning, she heard that low, smooth drawl of his echoing down the corridor. Should he stick to his usual routine, he’d debrief with Harry for about an hour, then stroll down to her office to get in his customary pastime of ruffling her feathers.

True to form, his smirking face appeared in her doorway roughly sixty-two minutes later.

“Granger,” he murmured from his post. “How have you been since our last rendezvous?”

“A dance at a gala is hardly a  _ rendezvous _ , Malfoy.”

“I suppose not, and though I am a gentleman above all else, you can’t blame a bloke for trying his luck.”

She’d forgotten about the glasses. He at least wore full robes today. No distracting open collar.

He leaned against the door jamb and crossed both his arms and his long, lean legs. And then he stared down his nose at her, peering over the top of his silver frames and Hermione suddenly wanted him much closer and without her desk in between them. Without anything in between them, especially clothing.

He’d certainly developed well from the arrogant, scrawny git from school. She of course had noticed that in recent years as they all progressed into adulthood. But the glasses added a whole new level of sophistication and maturity to an already well put together man and Hermione temporarily forgot why she kept resisting his charms.

Probably because they lacked sincerity. Yes, that was it. He likely talked this way to all the witches on this floor.

If he were truly interested, he’d stop by for more than a chat once or twice a week. And only when it suited him. He had to come to the Ministry anyway, to report and check in with Harry. He surely wasn’t coming in to see her. She existed as an amusing and convenient stop on his busy day. A little game he could play: annoy the swot.

She needed to redirect the conversation toward getting a straight answer to a curiosity that constantly plagued her thoughts.

“Your mother made another donation to TAME recently. A rather generous contribution.”

“I’m sure she did, she donates to many causes. Philanthropy is a passion of hers.”

“Not yours? You attend our gala every year.”

“Galas are a passion of mine.”

“A regular on the gala circuit are you?”

“Only the ones with guarantees of a delightful dance from a certain witch.”

She snorted at his overt corniness and bent her head back over her work, but he didn’t take the cue to leave.

“Aren’t you going to inquire about my mission abroad?”

“It’s classified, you’re not supposed to tell me anything.”

“Surely someone at your level has the proper clearance? Being that you work in the  _ international  _ department.”

The sight of Draco raising one eyebrow was neither new nor uncommon, but the sight of Draco cocking a brow over glasses was singularly alluring in a way she’d not experienced before.

“That does not give me authority to hear sensitive case details of an ongoing DMLE investigation,” Hermione volleyed back, relieved in the steadiness of her voice.

“But it’s such a thrilling tale of  _ international _ intrigue and I nearly lost an eye.”

She snorted dismissively and cast her gaze over his perfectly intact and decidedly attractive features.

“You look fine to me.”

“Do I now?”

He had the nerve to grin mischievously, apparently quite proud he’d inspired such a remark from her.

“Yes. You seem uninjured and in excellent health.”

“Well if you do decide you’d like to inspect me further, for health concerns of course, I’m a willing patient.”

“I’m not a healer, Malfoy.”

“A pity. Enjoy the rest of your day, Granger.”

Draco pushed those infuriatingly enticing glasses up his nose and shot her a parting smirk before finally leaving her to unravel internally in peace.

Those bloody glasses.

* * *

Four months to go before the TAME gala and Hermione had just received some rather surprising news.

“Absolutely not.”

She hadn’t meant to say it aloud. The rest of the assembled board members stared at her in shock.

“Is there a problem Miss Granger?” Elmira, ever calm, ever steady, looked slightly taken aback at Hermione’s vociferous objection.

“I’m sorry everyone, but… are we seriously considering naming  _ Narcissa Malfoy _ this year’s Champion for Muggleborn Rights?”

“Hermione, see reason,” urged Justin Finch-Fletchley. “The amount of gold she donates annually… it’s unheard of. And now with this latest sum we’ll be able to finance that school supplies fund for incoming Muggleborn Hogwarts students. For years. The note even specified that the gold should go directly towards that if possible. This will do a lot of good.”

While Justin made an excellent point, she often took his opinion with a grain of salt, as he sometimes seemed more interested in the social-climbing aspect of charitable work.

Hermione sat back in her seat and stared at the table as discussion resumed around her. She didn’t really know the woman, but well, if the Malfoy matriarch felt so moved by the plight of children with non-magical parents then why not become more directly involved in the cause? Something else had to be in play here.

“Justin,” she caught up with the other wizard as the meeting came to an end. “I think you’re right. About Mrs. Malfoy. Would you mind if I take a peek at the donation records? It might assist me with planning pitches to her for future endeavours.”

Justin, in his role as volunteer treasurer, had easy access to this information and sent over the stack of parchments the next day.

As she pored over line after line of boring financial information and tax documents, she could find nothing out of the ordinary, nothing to set off alarm bells that Narcissa appeared as anything other than a quiet and generous benefactor for years.

Still, something niggled at Hermione’s brain and the feelings of creeping doubt about Narcissa’s intentions remained.

The following month’s board meeting should have erased these feelings.

Because Narcissa declined to accept the award, sending back a polite refusal and urging that the award be bestowed upon a worthier candidate.

Instead of abandoning the task, Hermione redoubled her investigative efforts.

* * *

Hermione heard the click of expensive shoes nearing her door and prepared herself for a most distracting sight.

“Granger. Are you busy ensuring all our treaties are upheld and peace reigns amongst all magical nations?”

“Of course, but that was only my first twenty minutes of the day.”

She mentally congratulated herself for parrying his verbal jab, but then she looked up. Her assumption had been proven correct. Distracting as ever, those glasses on that face. Those sleek, slim pieces of metal and glass that worked together seamlessly to unite in the form of Draco’s stylish eyewear threatened to derail the rest of her work day. Again.

“So I take it you’re far too engrossed in all sorts of world-saving policy work to enjoy things like lunches outside the Ministry?”

“I’m hardly chained to my desk but I’m a firm believer in packing my own lunch.”

“More’s the pity. Think of all the deliciousness you could be sampling outside your office. All the new things you could taste and experience with your mouth.”

This man was making an overt attempt on her life. Or at the very least on the state of her knickers. She diverted her gaze from him and his entrancing glasses and the cocky twitch to his lips. Her eyes landed on her calendar. Ah yes, only one month until the gala. Right on schedule for him to ramp up the nonsensical behaviour.

And speaking of the gala…

“Your mother recently declined to accept a notable award from TAME.”

“Hmm, so I’ve heard. I think she felt… uncomfortable receiving such a public honour.”

He inspected his nails and the subtle action that allowed him to avoid looking her in the eye raised her suspicions.

“Because it’s got the word ‘Muggleborn’ in the title?”

His head snapped up.

“No,” he clipped and she’s momentarily taken aback at the harsh reply and the shadow of bitterness that crossed his face. “She merely feels the recognition is… undeserved.”

“She’s our top donor by a significant margin. Surely that merits some praise?”

“Ah well, apparently gold can buy you an awful lot of things.” He stood tall and stiff and for the first time in years, Hermione thought he appeared closed off, reserved.

“Just perhaps not the right things,” he uttered coolly and strode away.

* * *

Hermione found herself using her lunch hour to pay a visit to Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes. It might be a long shot and a bit underhanded, but she needed answers.

“Ron in?” she asked after greeting George behind the till with a peck to the cheek.

“In the back office, definitely not having a kip,” he responded with a knowing grin.

Hermione smirked when she opened the door and saw her best friend slumped over a desk. As the door snapped shut behind her, the noise inspired a frantic response.

“Just checking the books!” Ron yelped as he startled out of slumber.

Hermione giggled as he clutched his chest and steadied his breathing. “Merlin Hermione, don’t do that. I only closed my eyes for five minutes you know.”

“Rose still up all hours?”

“You’ve no idea,” he groaned. “Lungs like a banshee, that little thing.”

“And how’s Padma faring?”

“Same as me, as you can imagine. Parvati and Mum have been life-savers but even so, I accidentally over-brewed her tea yesterday and she burst into tears. Babies are no joke.”

“Harry and Gin made it through this phase with James, you two will be fine,” Hermione encouraged.

Ron ran a hand through unkempt red hair. “Your owl said something about getting account numbers from Bill?”

“Not exactly. I read up on the banking regulations and as he’s officially employed by Gringotts and has clearance to secure vaults I simply wanted to verify some of the addresses on file with specific accounts. For my charity work.”

Ron narrowed his eyes at her. “I know there’s something you’re not telling me. But I’m running on about two hours of sleep and will be lucky to get more than that tonight so just… whatever you’re doing Hermione make sure it’s for the right reason, yeah?”

He handed her a stack of parchment. “Bill sent a courier from Gringotts this morning. Said everything you need should be there. And Hermione, I couldn’t help notice the name on one of the files and I think—“

But she was already walking back out the door.

“Thanks Ron, and tell Bill the same.”

* * *

She’d almost forgotten about the open collar.

Not about the glasses, Merlin no, those stupid glasses featured in all sorts of graphic fantasies.

Draco arrived in a black suit without a witch on his arm, without a tie around his neck, and without his dress shirt buttoned at the throat.

For the very first time since she’d been involved with the organisation, the ritual pomp of the gala bored Hermione to tears. Nothing about the evening failed to hold her attention: not the sumptuous food, not Elmira’s speech, nor the awards or various speakers.

No, her traitorous focus couldn’t bear to zero in on anything other than Draco.

When the dancing started she waited. And waited. And waited some more. But he remained by the bar, nursing a gin and tonic and had not once spared her a glance.

Sod it.

Hermione refused to spend her evening involved in this game of wait, embroiled in this dream of hope.

She approached him with a determined air.

“Malfoy. Could I trouble you for a dance?”

He didn’t reply immediately. His lips quirked as he picked up his glass, took a measured sip, then planted it back onto the bar. Hermione clocked the bob of his throat as he swallowed the alcohol, easy to track with that open collar of his.

“Of course Granger.”

They danced together in silence. Which would have been fine except with nothing to distract her, Hermione could only stare at the skin in her direct line of sight, seeing many a fantasy scenario wherein she leaned forward and tasted that swathe of skin. Of course what she now envisioned as the beginning of more intimate activities would no doubt bring an end to whatever tenuous friendliness they’d established over the years.

And her recent discovery with Bill’s help meant she actually needed to have a conversation with this suddenly walled off man.

“You’ve attended in your mother’s stead again. What’s the excuse this year?”

He arched a brow at her abrupt and borderline rude question.

“She has many demands on her time and unfortunately cannot commit to every invitation that comes her way.”

“Hmm, but does your mother even receive this particular invitation, I wonder? Especially when it’s not sent to her current residence?”

A twitch in his jaw as his eyes tightened. A man who knew he’d been had.

“I followed the routing number for the Gringotts vault,” continued Hermione. “The donations were made in your mother’s name but the account associated with the gold has another address on file. Your mother still lives at Malfoy Manor. This is for a separate property.”

She expected him to lie. To spin a half-truth about how his family owned many properties both here and abroad. Instead he gave an elegant shrug of his shoulders.

“It’s perfectly legal. To donate in someone else’s name. I do wonder though, whether you could say the same for the way you’ve obtained your information?”

Hermione frowned up at him at the implication. “It’s perfectly legal to double-check the veracity of the financial information on file for a donor. Is she aware of all your generosity in her name?”

“Yes.”

“And how does she feel about this?”

“Amused.”

Hermione huffed in frustration at his unwillingness to elaborate. “Why do all this?”

He chuckled as if the answer were obvious. “I didn’t think you’d accept my gold.”

“But I’d accept your mother’s?”

“She saved Potter so I thought her name might be more palatable than mine.”

She held his stare, incredulity etched on her features. “We’ve been friendly for years, and you work with Harry regularly. You didn’t think that was enough?”

“No. Not for you.”

Hermione swallowed. A nervous sort of fluttering occurred around her midsection; a reaction directly caused by the heat originating in his eyes, channeled through those  _ Merlin-damned glasses _ , and searing her every nerve ending.

“And what is it you want from me?”

“Are you saying you don’t already know?”

“I’m saying you should speak plainly. For once.”

“And would that be enough?”

“For more dances?”

He shook his head.

“Lunches outside the Ministry?”

He shook his head again.

Godric, this man was infuriating. Well two could play at his irritating game of salacious yet circuitous conversation.

“A night in your bed?”

A sort of strangled groan sputtered past his lips and he looked as if it physically pained him to shake his head this time.

“More than one night, then?”

His grey eyes flashed behind his lenses. His fingers flexed in her hand and at her waist, as if he’d intended to pull her closer, to pull her flush against him, to pull moans and whimpers and all sorts of high-pitched vocalisations from her throat.

But then he dropped his touch all together and stepped back from her.

“Come find me when you’ve figured out if you’d also want… more.”

And then that enigmatic, obtuse, handsome, bespectacled  _ idiot _ had the stones to turn on his heel and stalk away from her.

Oh no, that monumental arse of a man did not get to employ the cowardly option. She caught up with him by the Floos, powder already in his hand as she skidded to a halt in front of him.

He stared back impassively as she growled, “Leave it open.”

Draco nodded once and went through. Hermione immediately followed.

He’d gotten as far as a ridiculously opulent mahogany desk when she shot out of his fireplace and into a sumptuously decorated study.

“Granger, what the bloody hell?”

“You said to come find you and so I did.”

The  _ audacity _ of this man. Hermione stood in his study, in a floor-length black gown, after having barged into his home and he had the gall to… to…

To remove his jacket.

To undo his cufflinks.

To roll up his sleeves.

To take off his glasses.

To hold them in those long, nimble-looking fingers.

To produce a handkerchief, polish the lenses, and then slide the glasses back up his nose.

To then peer down at her from his considerable height over the tops of those frames.

To then inquire of her in a throaty baritone: “Well, have you decided?”

She’d reached a boiling point and though she’d certainly decided on  _ something _ , her instincts still needed to sort out whether the corresponding action would be to jinx or to jump this man.

“Why not just ask me out? Like a normal person!” Hermione burst out.

Draco folded his arms across his broad chest, the bulging of his forearms making a valiant effort to distract her as easily as those glasses.

“Would you have said yes?”

“You hardly gave me the opportunity! How was I supposed to know how you felt if you just kept anonymously donating and attending the gala?”

“The gala was a way to get your attention.”

“So what, you thought you could keep this from me? Play the coward and hide behind your mother’s name?”

Hermione knew he’d not intended to do that, but her inflammatory statement did net the result she desired: a flaring of his nostrils as he charged over to her. Close enough to touch. Close enough to see the emotional reaction she’d finally inspired. Close enough to feel his breath on her face when he implored: “No you daft bint, it was to show you I’d changed. I hardly think bragging about my charitable donations would have endeared me to you.”

“Then why not just talk to me?” she challenged.

“I did! What do you think those dances meant every year? It was the only time I could get you alone outside your office! But did you regard me with anything other than doubt?”

“Of course not I—I—oh gods…”

It was rather embarrassing to be proven absolutely incorrect. Especially if you were Hermione Granger and lived most of your existence on the moral high ground.

Dazed, she sat down on the nearest couch and heard a distant grumble of, “oh yes please, do make yourself at home.”

Hermione had interrogated and dismissed his intentions at every turn, both internally and to his face. She’d responded to any and all flirting attempts with rebuffs and deflections, so certain he’d lacked all sincerity and too caught up in protecting herself to give him a proper chance. 

She heard him sigh as he sat down next to her. Hermione looked over at Draco to catch him already staring back, but without malice or mockery. His victory hard-won but at a depressing cost.

Hermione cleared her throat and ran her fingers lightly along the fabric seat of the cushion that separated them.

“Your couch is hideous.”

“Have something against green furniture do you?”

“The colour is fine. But velvet and tufted? Completely ridiculous.”

He snorted softly. Then he shifted closer to her. Slid a large hand over her smaller one, stilling its exploration of the green material.

“I meant it all Granger. Every word. I thought you’d eventually notice. That I’d put forth a proper effort to be… different.”

Hermione turned her hand beneath his to interlace their fingers.

“Draco… of course I noticed. But what you wanted from me… how was I supposed to know?”

“I tried appealing to your intellectual nature,” he began quietly. “I tried discussing your interests with you. I tried openly flirting with you. Merlin Granger, some of the things I said were blatantly and overtly sexual,” he huffed out a frustrated laugh.

“And all the while you what? Thought you’d quietly fund all these things and I’d never find out?”

“You weren’t meant to.”

“Tell me.” 

The forceful command from her mouth jerked his head back. She saw his pupils dilate as his tongue darted out to moisten his lips.

“Tell me,” she repeated when he didn’t answer in a timely manner. “Because I’ve already decided I’d like more, too. But only if you’re willing to be honest with me.”

“I’m the one donating to your initiative each year,” he finally murmured. 

Hermione squeezed his hand, suspecting he had more to get off his chest. “What else have you done?” 

Draco cast his gaze down to their joined hands. 

“I tipped off Titania Newsom for her investigative piece,” he admitted hoarsely.

“Oh, was that all?” she teased. 

“I funded the internship programme for Muggleborn students at the Ministry,” he said gruffly.

“I see,” she said faintly, shocked at the weight of that particular revelation. “And are you all out of confessions?”

He swallowed once. “I wrote to Elmira Leach and requested you as a guest speaker on house-elf rights.”

“All those years ago? Why?”

He smiled fondly as he recalled a pleasant memory. "I’d stopped by your office once, to bother you of course, and you were pitching the most adorable fit about some horrible article in the Prophet on their plight. You just went on and on and I don’t think I got a word in edgewise, let alone any sort of fun innuendos.” He shrugged. “I thought the rest of our world could benefit from hearing it too but you seemed too busy to seek out that sort of thing so…” he trailed off and looked away, a light pink staining his high cheekbones. 

Draco had held up his end of the honesty bargain. She could too.

Honesty in the form of bold acts. Bold acts she’d dreamt of but never initiated for fear of rejection. Bold acts like shifting over to him, throwing a leg over his lap to straddle him, and then lowering her head to hover her lips just above his.

“My turn to be truthful,” she spoke in a whisper. “I wanted you to flirt with me and I wanted you to mean it.” 

Hermione pressed her lips to his and clutched at his taut shoulders as his hands moved to her hips to keep her in place. She kept the kiss tender and languid, giving into the soft, pliant feel of his mouth and only retreating when he finally grew adventurous enough to introduce their tongues.

Sitting back on his thighs, she slid one finger beneath a dress strap, her intentions clear. Draco’s steely gaze focused on her fiddling with the piece of satin.

“I look forward to our dances every year,” she divulged.

Hermione slid one dress strap off her shoulder.

“Your visits to my office are intellectually stimulating and I look forward to every conversation with you.”

She slid the second strap off. His hands gripped her waist harder.

“And your glasses make you disturbingly shaggable.”

Hermione reached behind herself and undid the zip of her dress down to her mid-back.

“ _ Fucking hell _ , Granger.”

She pulled her arms through the straps and let the top half of her gown fall away, leaving Hermione bare before his shocked gaze. She’d no need for a bra, as her cups were sewn into the dress.

Several beats of silence passed while Draco’s unwavering, appreciative gaze never left her breasts.

“Uh… you’re staring?”

“You have glorious tits, Granger.”

“They’re hardly remarkable.”

“Wrong. May I?”

She nodded and he took one in each palm and then brushed a thumb over each nipple. She managed to stifle a gasp, but her lower body ground into him and received a sinuous rocking of his hips in turn, even as his vision never strayed from her chest.

“I hope you’re not offended if I tell you I did not expect this absolutely fantastic turn of events,” he said reverently, and continued caressing and kneading her breasts.

“You’re being rather ridiculous, it’s not like they’re pierced or anything.”

His hands fell away and he looked horrified at the thought.

“Is that… a Muggle thing? Why would one do that?”

“I’ve no idea nor do I care, could you please touch me again?”

He not only obliged her but surged forward to recapture her lips. Kissing steadily grew hungrier, sloppier, and her face kept nudging against the bridge of his frames. Hermione ran her fingers lightly down his jaw and neck, then let her mouth follow that same path, finally tasting that skin revealed by his open collar. As she unbuttoned his shirt the rest of the way, Draco grabbed her by the waist and deftly maneuvered them so she could be pinned beneath him on the abominable sofa.

“I’m taking you to lunch every time I pop into the Ministry,” he breathed in her ear.

Hermione hummed in agreement as she helped divest him of his shirt.

“I’m taking you to dinner next Friday.”

She whispered, “Of course,” as she undid his belt and tossed it across the room.

“I’m taking you to brunch the morning after.”

“Yes, somewhere stupidly posh,” she replied and shimmied her dress down her hips.

“I’m taking you to that gala and every other from now on.”

“Sounds delightful,” she agreed and impatiently vanished the rest of their clothing.

“And I’m taking you on this ghastly green couch right now.”

Hermione kissed him and pressed the words, “Yes, please,” against his lips.

But before he followed through on that promise, he reached a hand up to his face.

“No. Leave the glasses on.”

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> HAPPY BIRTHDAY MIGHTBEWRITING!
> 
> Thanks to all who took a minute to read, now go wish that fabulous person a happy birthday!
> 
> And big thanks to the wonderful [@persephonestone](https://persephonestone.tumblr.com/) who organized this lovely tribute. 
> 
> Thank you lovely beta/super friend mrsbutlertron for working your magic as usual. Find me on tumblr where I generally reblog all the Draco in Glasses art to be found: [@heyjude19-writing](https://heyjude19-writing.tumblr.com/).


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